


Far Longer Than Forever

by luceskywalker



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Premise: Elves that don't want to stay dead can't be made to, Queerplatonic Relationships, Romance, Things I've rewritten way too many times, Tolkien said so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luceskywalker/pseuds/luceskywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theirs was the greatest love story of the Second Age, until they were forcibly sundered in the Battle of Dagorlad. In TA 2510, they're given another chance. But lost legends don’t come back to life every day, and the return of one such legend causes a massive upheaval in Elrond’s already disrupted life. Resuming their relationship is inevitable, but neither of them are the elves they used to be, and as the saying goes, the course of true love never did run smooth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where He Dwelleth None Can Say, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Universe:** AU  
>  **Story Rating:** M  
>  **Chapter Rating:** K  
>  **Pairings:** past Elrond/Celebrían, past (and also present) Elrond/Gil-galad,  queerplatonic Erestor/Glorfindel.  
>  **Timeline:** Yavië/Iavas (September), Third Age 2510, five months after Celebrían's departure.
> 
> Alyss is a joint creation of Embrethil and myself, Eäthiriel, Tirith and Morë are mine, and everyone else belongs to Tolkien.

_Mithlond_

The Hall of Kings was silent. A cold breeze swept through the grey stone corridor, threatening to extinguish the torch that Círdan held. The shipwright had woken from an unsettling dream that he did not remember, and something had compelled him to come here. That same something told him to keep walking, foot in front of foot on the cold stone ground. Círdan avoided coming here as much as possible, and the only reason he stayed and gave into whatever it was that was propelling him along was that he felt that he was here for a reason. There was something that he needed to see. He was barefoot, and the torch he carried did little to dispel the midnight gloom. He was alone, as he ever was in life, with none but his wolfhound Tirith for company. The dog padded along next to him, footfalls as silent as the shipwright's own. 

Círdan recognised the section of the Hall that he was in and tried to stop walking, unwilling to go further; but his feet had other plans and slowly took him closer to his destination. A glass-topped casket a few feet ahead of the elf was glowing slightly, surrounded by a faint blue aura. He knew it well. It was the only casket in this Hall, and was where they had laid High King Gil-Galad to rest.

Círdan's heart stuttered as he drew closer and he realised why he had been called to this place.

 

The coffin was empty.

~~~~~~

_Valinor_

Deep in the Halls of Mandos, the Fëanturi gathered around a stone table, watching a glowing sphere above their heads that showed Celebrían and Ereinion sitting together on the railing of a balcony.

The elves were silent for a moment, and then Celebrían's voice rang out of the sphere. "If I could have one wish, just one, right now... I would wish for them to send you back to him. He's had so many people taken from him, and he doesn't deserve any of it. I just wish that he could have one person back, and that it could be you." 

Ereinion put an arm around her, kissed her temple, and a few seconds later, his reply echoed through the room. "I wish that too."

The sphere closed in on itself and disappeared, leaving the Fëanturi cloaked in darkness even as the former king's last words still surrounded them.

Námo lowered his head and addressed his brother and sister. "The motion is lodged, and seconded."

He turned his infinite gaze to Nienna. "What say you?"

She met it. "Aye."

Námo's dark eyes then moved to Irmo. The blue eyes of the Master of Dreams looked into Námo's own.

"What say you?"

"Aye."

Nienna and Irmo looked at Námo in turn and spoke in unison. "What say you, brother?"

Námo raised his arms and invoked the Music. It obeyed his summons and did as he bid, and the body of Ereinion Gil-galad disappeared from its keeping-place on Arda and appeared on the stone table in front of him. He looked at his fellow Fëanturi.

"Aye."

Nienna waved her hand and the sphere reappeared, showing Ereinion now sitting alone on the balcony. The glow shifted from the edge of the sphere to outline him instead, then bathed him in light and pulled him out of the world. The glow diminished to a small circle, which drifted through the sphere and into Nienna's waiting hands.

The remains of the sphere dissipated like smoke and Nienna placed the glowing ball of Ereinion's spirit onto his chest, over his heart. Irmo moved to place his hands on either side of Ereinion's head to prevent him from waking during this process. The Music their brother had invoked swirled around them, lending its power to their task. The former king's spirit hovered for a moment, then sank down into its house and reached out to the extremities, spreading its glow as the body was returned to life. The Music swelled to a crescendo, and, duty fulfilled, returned beyond the realm of perception.

The sudden, infinite silence was kept by the Fëanturi as they waited for confirmation of their success.

Ereinion's chest rose as its body took its first breath in two and half millennia, sunk, and rose again.

Námo placed a hand over Ereinion's heart, and felt it beat.

"It is done. So be it."

~~~~~~

_Imladris_

Glorfindel jolted awake in the early hours of the morning with a feeling in his chest like he was looking out over a precipice. He glanced to his left to check on Erestor, but the other elf was sleeping soundly. He sat up and glanced around to make sure all of the cats were alright, and found all five also sleeping, except for Morë who was licking himself in the moonlight streaming through the archway to the garden. Morë raised his head and glared at Glorfindel as if he was admonishing the elf for invading his privacy.

"As you were," Glorfindel said, looking away. Everything seemed to be in order, but the feeling was still heavy in his chest.

Beside him, Erestor stirred, finally drawn from sleep by the loss of Glorfindel's body heat. "What did you say?" he murmured.

"Nothing, I was talking to Morë."

"Oh." Erestor followed Glorfindel into a sitting position and noted the expression on the blond elf's face and the way he pressed a hand against his chest. "Are you alright? Are you sick?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "No, no, I'm fine. I just have this strange feeling..." all of a sudden a shudder ran through him, and the weight in his chest changed from something foreboding to something anticipatory. "Whoa."

"What was that?"

"I had this feeling, here, in my chest, like something big and important was about to happen, and I think it just did. But I don't know what it was."

Erestor listened for a moment. "Well, I don't hear any running footsteps, and if it was people arriving on horseback we'd have heard that by now too. So whatever it was, it didn't happen here."

"I think you're right," Glorfindel replied, listening for a moment to confirm for himself that there was no impending crisis in the manor.

Erestor laid his head on the blond's shoulder. "There's still a few hours until dawn. Come back to sleep."

Glorfindel nodded and allowed himself to be drawn back down onto the bed. Erestor pulled the covers back over them and slung an arm over Glorfindel's waist, pillowing his head on the other elf's chest. "We'll find out what it was in the morning." 

"It is the morning," Glorfindel whispered, reaching a hand up to run his fingers through Erestor's silky black hair.

"Shhhh," came the reply. Glorfindel smiled as Erestor's breathing evened back out, and continued his ministrations until unconsciousness tugged him under as well.

~~~~~~

_Valinor_

Námo was solemn as he looked out of the windows onto Arda, marking the completion of his and his sibling's labours with due reverence. 

Námo's wife Vairë walked silently up behind him and slipped an arm around his waist, resting her head against his shoulder. She regarded the windows in front of him, and the two places they showed, transcending space and time. On the right, the Lord of Imladris slept fitfully, alone in his bed in the mid-morning hours; on the left, Ereinion Gil-galad was peacefully asleep on a beach at sunset, successfully restored to his old body and carried to the shores of his former Kingdom in the gentle arms of Ulmo.

"It is done?"

"It is done."

"I am glad. I tire of weaving only tragic scenes for Elrond."

"There are trials still that he must face," Námo replied. "And trials that Ereinion must face also. But all will be well, in time, and you will have many joyful scenes to weave."

Vairë smiled at her husband, and they turned back to the windows to watch as both elves stirred, unknowingly about to wake up to a whole new world.

~~~~~~

_Imladris_

The sun shone brightly in the clear blue sky, warming Imladris as the last of her inhabitants woke up. Despite the bright morning, and the fact that all of the curtains were open, the bedroom of the Lord of Imladris was dark and filled with a sense of impenetrable melancholy.

In his dreams Elrond wandered far and wide, not bothered by hunger or weariness or pain. He was in a strange place where all the edges were blurred; there were white skies, and green grass, and black shadows that Elrond assumed were trees, but he could discern nothing else.

He had no conscious idea of where he was going, but still he knew where to go, following an almost-invisible path which eventually led him to a place with no trees and no grass. The ground here was golden, the sky was blue, and he could vaguely hear the crash of waves and the calling of seagulls. There was a figure ahead, but the blurred edges made the person seem insubstantial. Whoever it was turned around, and though they did not have a face - just a swirl of blurred features - Elrond felt a jolt of recognition. He had no idea who it was, but he knew that he knew them, and that this place where they stood was special: many memories had taken place here. The other person seemed to be smiling.

Elrond tried to take a step towards his unrecognisable companion, but his legs were frozen in place. He frowned, and his companion's smile dropped, along with the ground. Elrond felt himself falling, and heard a whisper in his ear, the whisper of a voice long-unheard.

_I'll see you soon._

_Who are you?_ he tried to ask, but he had no voice.

Elrond continued to fall, and with a jolt he awoke, drenched in cold sweat and breathing heavily. His mind went into overdrive as he tried to put a face to the voice, tried to place where he knew that person from, but the canvas of his brain was blank.

Getting his breathing under control, he passed a hand over his face and threw the covers back. He tried to remember as much as he could about the vague figure from his dream, but the remnants slipped through his fingers like so much water, and their identity remained hidden. He dropped his head into his hands and remained there for a few minutes, until his maidservant Alyss knocked quietly on the door and stepped inside.

"Good morning, my Lord," she greeted, pausing to look with some concern at his hunched posture and hidden face.

After a moment he took a deep breath and replied "Good morning, Alyss," quietly. 

Asking after his wellbeing was a pointless exercise, Alyss knew: it was obvious to everyone in the city that Elrond wasn't alright, and he wouldn't be for a long time yet. But he was getting there, and that was the main thing. With a nod that she knew he couldn't see, Alyss stepped into the bathroom to run him a bath. 

The prospect of a hot bath sounded like utopia to Elrond's exhaustion, so he pushed himself out of bed and put his dressing gown on, and wandered over to the bathroom door to wait for the bath to be ready. Alyss hummed quietly as she went around the room gathering towels and a sponge and soap. She smiled at Elrond as she passed him, and stacked the objects in her arms neatly on a stool by the tub. It was nearly full now and she added some lavender oil to the water to aid it in its calming and soothing, and then reached to turn off the tap.

With one last glance to make sure everything was in order, she turned to leave. Elrond thanked her as she passed him, and she inclined her head respectfully in reply, bidding him good day.

Elrond watched her go and was filled with gratitude at her quiet, reliable presence, and the quiet, reliable presences of all his household staff. Elrond looked at the inviting bath waiting for him, and found the day a little brighter.

~~~~~~

_Mithlond, later that day_

Círdan walked slowly along the beach at dusk, his thoughts preoccupied, as they had been all day, with the events of the previous night. The coffin had not been damaged. The glass was untouched - and completely unbreakable, at any rate - and the clasps had not shown any signs of forced entry. Ereinion's body was simply _gone_.

"Who would take his body anyway?" Círdan asked Tirith as the dog came lolloping back to him and deposited a stick at his feet. The wolfhound cocked his head and offered no answer.

"It's not as if anyone can ransom it," the shipwright continued, scratching behind Tirith's ears. "Why would anyone want to? And the only way the Hall of Kings can be accessed is by a door that needs a password. The only other people except us who know that password are Elrond, Galadriel, Celeborn and Mithrandir, and none of them are here, or have any reason to take it."

He raised an eyebrow at his dog. "Do you have any ideas?"

Tirith flicked his tail back and forth and panted. 

"No? Hmm. Still a mystery then," Círdan said with a sigh. He picked up the stick and straightened up, groaning when his joints protested. He tossed the stick forward just as the breeze changed direction. Tirith had turned and was ready to go after the stick when he caught whiff of a new scent, and all of a sudden his ears pricked up and he tore off down the beach, barking loudly, the stick forgotten.

"Tirith! Come back here!" Círdan called. Tirith paid him no heed and shipwright had no other option but to hurry after his dog and wonder what in the name of Ulmo had gotten into him.

~~~~~~

Ereinion Gil-Galad awoke to the bright light of the setting sun shining directly onto his closed eyelids. A strange cold feeling swept over him, from his feet up to his waist, and it took him a second to realise that he was lying on a beach with waves breaking over his legs.

He sleepily assumed that he must have wandered down to the beach and fallen asleep in the sun. He opened his eyes with some difficulty, watching the bright colours of sunset paint the ocean. After a moment he remembered that the beach in Alqualondë faced east, and therefore would not catch the setting sun like this.

_Then how-? What-?_

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a dog barking, and he looked in the direction of the sound, squinting against the bright sunlight. He struggled to elbow himself into a sitting position, unused to the weight of a real, flesh-and-blood body, and had barely achieved it when the dog skidded to a stop next to him and started enthusiastically licking his face.

"It's not that I don't appreciate such a warm welcome, my friend," Ereinion joked between licks with a voice gravelly from disuse. He managed to push the dog away long enough to sit up properly and added, "But I think we should wait until we know each other a little better before we-"

He had been going to say 'take our relationship there', but broke off when his eyes finally adjusted to the light and he recognised the pale brown wolfhound that had been kindly washing his face for him.

"Tirith?" he breathed.

The wolfhound barked once in acquiescence, his tail wagging madly.

Ereinion's mouth fell open, and he looked around at his surroundings, barely believing it. But yes, this beach was familiar, and he recognised it with more than a tinge of nostalgia. Over there was the ornate jetty, and beyond that he could glimpse the masts of the ships docked in the quay. He turned to the other side and saw the magnificent towers of the Grey Havens, built all the way up the slope to the headland upon which Círdan's house proudly stood. 

"What..."

He had gone down to the beach in Alqualondë in the morning to meet the ship, he remembered. Celebrían had been on it, and he had gone with her back to Celeborn's father's house to help her settle in...and then the last thing Ereinion remembered was sitting with Celebrían on the balcony that evening. After a while she had gone back inside, and he had stayed out a little longer. He assumed he must have gone back to the inn where he was staying with his mother at some point, but he couldn't recall doing so. Suddenly his mother's strange goodbye came back to him. She was only going back to the inn to go to bed, but he felt like she was farewelling him as if they wouldn't see each other for a long time, and he couldn't help but wonder if maybe she had somehow known about this.

_"If I could have one wish," Celebrían had said, as they sat on the balcony, "just one, right now... I would wish for them to send you back to him. He's had so many people taken from him, and he doesn't deserve any of it. I just wish that he could have one person back, and that it could be you." She buried her face in her hands as the tears she had been fighting won out. Ereinion put an arm around her, feeling his own eyes prickling, and kissed her temple._

_"I wish that too."_

No more words were needed between them. They had known each other longer than either of them had known Elrond, and still had the easy relationship of surrogate siblings, even after all this time. Ereinion had been torn; until that moment he had never considered the possibility of being reborn in Arda but as soon as the thought entered his head, he wanted it more fiercely than he had ever wanted anything. And yet, here was Celebrían, as much a sister to him as Eäthiriel, alone in a foreign place, heartsick and weary and in need of his support. A treacherous voice in his head said that Celebrían had her grandparents and her uncles and probably didn't need him, and he squashed it, immediately feeling guilty for even thinking that.

But she had said she wished for him to return, and she must have meant it because here he was. Alive again. In Arda.

Ereinion's head was spinning. It all seemed to have happened too fast; he had been under the impression that it took years to be reborn - surrogate parents had to be found, and then the person returned had to go through a second childhood and reach maturity to regain the memories of their first life. That is how it had happened with Glorfindel. And yet here he was, fully grown, with all of his memories, as far as he could tell. It was as if his life had picked up straight from where it had stopped. Ereinion passed one hand over his face and resolved to not think about it just yet; he was too disoriented in general to make much sense of anything. He reached out to scratch Tirith behind the ears with the other, wondering at the dog's presence.

Tirith suddenly moved a few paces away, and Ereinion looked up, his gaze following the wolfhound to alight on the form of one very surprised shipwright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes about my headcanon:  
>  **1)** I believe that elven pets are, for the most part, immortal like their owners. Otherwise what's the point of an elf keeping a pet? The life of a normal domesticated dog or cat would be like the blink of an eye to an elf.
> 
>  **2)** Erestor asking if Glorfindel is "sick" is not arbitrary, or accidental – When it is said "Elves do not suffer from illness" I take it to mean they are immune to _viruses_ , illness caused by bacteria. There’s evidence in the canon to suggest that elves are not immune to mental illness (see: the Silmarils' effect on literally everyone, Maedhros after Angband, etc), so, by extension, they are probably also not immune to _chronic_ illness. Glorfindel in my headcanon has something akin to CFS, which developed after the battle of Carn Dûm where he made the prophecy about the Witch-King.


	2. Where He Dwelleth None Can Say, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Otaro_ is an amalgamation of the Quenya words _Atar_ , 'father' and _otorno_ , 'sworn brother', therefore means 'sworn father' and is used for stepfathers, foster fathers and father figures. Further notes on this are at the bottom of the chapter.
> 
> Aratorë and Tirith are mine, everyone else belongs to Tolkien Enterprises and the Saul Zaentz Company.

_Mithlond_

Círdan stared down at the elf sitting in front of him, shocked speechless.

 _I'm dreaming,_ he thought. _Or hallucinating. This can't be real._

The shipwright remained frozen in place until Ereinion cleared his throat and said, "Hello, Otaro," and then looked up at Círdan with a smile so painfully familiar that it broke the spell. The bearded elf took a step forward and sunk to his knees beside the former king, his eyes filled with joyful tears.

"Ereinion?"

The reborn elf nodded, reaching a sluggish hand up to wipe at the moisture on Círdan's cheek. "Don't cry."

"How can I do anything else?" Círdan exclaimed, pulling Ereinion into a tight embrace, not caring about the awkward angle or the waves that continued to break around them. "What manner of miracle is this?"

Ereinion couldn't answer that question but sensed that Círdan wasn't really expecting him to. For many moments neither elf moved, both of them simply savouring the reunion and hugging out centuries upon centuries of sorrow and loneliness. They did not break apart until it started to get uncomfortable to sit on the beach in sodden clothes that were only getting wetter. Círdan helped Ereinion to his feet and supported him until his legs stopped wobbling.

"Alright?"

Ereinion took an experimental step, and then another, and nodded. The sea breeze was cold, bordering on freezing when it blew against his wet leggings and tunic, and he shivered. The shipwright noticed this and draped his own cloak around his foster son's shoulders. It was also quite damp from the waves but provided some relief and Ereinion smiled at him.

"Thank you. But don't you need it?"

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "Are you insinuating that I'm likely to need it more because my old bones can't handle a light sea breeze?"

"Yes." Ereinion replied without hesitation, grinning at his foster father. That earned him a light slap on the arm.

"Insolent youth," growled the shipwright, his bright smile belying his words.

Tirith, getting tired of the lack of attention being paid to him, pushed between the two elves, slobbering on Ereinion's hand.

"Bleugh!" Ereinion mock-glared at the wolfhound. "Thank you."

Tirith looked up at the reborn elf, all innocence. Ereinion just sighed and wiped his hand on his leggings, and then scratched the dog behind his ears as they walked along. Tirith panted happily, pleased with himself at the fact that his plan had worked. As the small family made their way up to Círdan's house, the shipwright talked about the changes that had happened to Mithlond since the end of the Second Age, explaining how they had improved the city as advances in technology were made. Ereinion listened with interest, curious about what had happened during his absence. It was too dark to see the changes Círdan spoke of, but the shipwright promised to show them to Ereinion in the daylight.

They took the path up to Círdan's house that had been cut into the mountain as opposed to the slightly less steep path that ran through the city, in order to avoid townspeople with prying eyes and wagging tongues. Ereinion's presence would be revealed eventually, but Círdan understood without being told that the former King would need a few days to re-accustom himself to life before his reincarnation was revealed. Ereinion smiled at his foster father in wordless gratitude when they bypassed the turn for the road through the city and he realised what Círdan was doing for him.

By the time they reached the shipwright's front gate Ereinion was mostly used to moving in a corporeal body, but he suspected that his legs would punish him for the steep hike in the morning. He was a little out of breath and his legs were starting to protest, but he welcomed the burning ache. It made him feel alive. Círdan held the front door open for him and Ereinion gratefully stepped into the bright warmth of the house. As the sun went down the wind had only grown colder and Ereinion, who was no longer used to the realities of Arda's weather, felt as if his bones had turned to ice.

Ereinion looked around Círdan's front room, smiling at the fact that it had not changed since the last time he saw it. There was a fire glowing merrily in the hearth and he made a beeline for it, hanging Círdan's cloak on the hook by the door as he passed. Ereinion sat down on the hearth rug and held his hands out to the blaze, and was accosted a few moments later by Tirith, who seemed to be unaware that he was too big to climb into Ereinion's lap anymore and attempted to do so anyway. Ereinion put his arms around the wolfhound's neck and leaned down to kiss the top of the dog's head. Tirith turned his head and nuzzled Ereinion's cheek, and it seemed he was saying _I missed you_.

"I missed you too," Ereinion murmured, rubbing the dog's neck. He looked up as Círdan appeared at his side.

"You can either have dinner or a bath first. Which would you like?"

Ereinion thought about it for a moment, and then decided on a bath. Círdan nodded as if he was expecting that, and went to run one for him. Ereinion dislodged the great fat lump on his lap enough to free his legs, and stood up. Tirith looked up at him and whined, affronted at being moved. He had been quite comfortable. Ereinion laughed.

"You're aware that I'm not your bed, aren't you?"

Tirith barked as if to say _No_. Ereinion laughed again.

"Some things never change. Come on," he jerked his head in the direction of the stairs and climbed them, heading up to what had been his old room. It, like the rest of the house, was largely unchanged and Ereinion was hit with a sudden wave of nostalgia and déjà vu. It was strange to be back here after so long, in this room that had never changed when so many other things had. 

Ereinion knew without having to ask that what had been his Imperial Capital at Forlond was now little more than a slightly-larger-than-usual fishing village. Neither his sister nor Elrond had taken up the throne and so the city's population dwindled, some inhabitants moving up to the mountains of Ered Luin, some travelling east to Imladris and Lothlorien, and others heading to Mithlond to stay or to sail. Círdan's seaside city was now the largest settlement and central hub of what remained of the realm of Lindon.

Ereinion briefly wondered what had happened to the palace, but it occurred to him that he didn't really care. He lived there for most of his life, but he never really got attached to it. This small room, in Círdan's honest, simple house was home. Ereinion had been an adult when they fled to Lindon, but the shipwright had built this house to be an exact replica of the one they'd shared in Balar, and so the former King did feel like he was back in his childhood room. The only difference was that the room contained a normal bed, not the boat-shaped one that Círdan made for him when he was a child. The room still had blue walls, soft, sand-coloured carpet and gauzy grey curtains. His quilt cover still had little ships embroidered on it.

Ereinion picked up the matches that were on his dressing table, just inside the door, and lit the lantern hanging from the ceiling. He walked over to the bed and turned to face the window, then let himself fall backwards, arms out flung, to land on the mattress. The stars painted on the low ceiling had faded somewhat, but the gold paint still glimmered in the soft light. Tirith leapt up onto the bed next to him. 

Yes, this was home, in a way that his palace in Forlond, with all of its luxury and extravagance, had never been. If he had ever considered that place to be his home, then it was not because of any sentimental attachment to his quarters, but the person he shared them with.

The same person that he had shared the master suite of Imladris with.

The former King's treacherous mind tormented him with the thought that maybe Elrond had shared the master suite with Celebrían, too, and it took some effort to squash that thought. Even if that did happen, Ereinion thought, he did not have the right to be angry or jealous. It was Elrond's life, Elrond's house and Elrond's rooms and he could share them with anyone he wanted.

But no, they hadn't been Elrond's rooms, had they?

_"Here, Ereinion, take a look at these and tell me what you think."_

_The King looked up from the blueprints that Aratorë had given him to look at the ones in Elrond's hand. They were designs for an apartment, and a very beautiful one at that. There were swirling, intricate designs laid into everything from the bedposts to the ceiling cornices, with a colour scheme of seafoam green and muted blue with white and gold trim, and beautiful dark mahogany wood for the furniture. The apartment would be on the very top storey of the main house, with a large balcony that would boast a spectacular view over the city, the waterfalls that ran into the Bruinen, and the valley beyond._

_"These are gorgeous! Are they the plans for your rooms?" Ereinion asked, looking up at the half-elf who was biting his bottom lip and still managing to grin. Elrond shook his head._

_"No._ Our _rooms."_

The former King came back to the present with a shaky breath, and sat up, willing all thoughts and memories of Elrond out of his mind. Tirith whined, sensing Ereinion's sudden shift in mood. The elf patted him on the neck in reassurance.

"I'll be fine as long as I don't think of _him_ ," Ereinion told the dog. Tirith's ears flicked back and forth and he yawned. Ereinion chuckled. "You stay here. I'm going to go and check on my bath."

He arrived at the bathroom just as Círdan was about to leave it.

"Ah! Perfect timing. Your bath's ready, I'll just go and get you some pyjamas. Leave your clothes on the bench and I'll put them out to wash."

He disappeared into the hall, closing the bathroom door behind him, and Ereinion began the arduous task of undoing all of his clothes with the sluggish fingers of a long-uninhabited body. After what seemed like at least a month he was down to his undershirt, and wondered why on earth tunics had to have so many buttons. He deposited his shirts onto the long side of the L-shaped counter and flexed his fingers, hoping that he would regain his dexterity soon. 

He had just pulled his undershirt off when Círdan re-entered the bathroom.

"Your clothes are all packed away so you can just borrow a pair of my pyjamas for toni-" the shipwright turned after placing the pyjamas next to Ereinion's sodden clothes, and his words trailed off when he caught sight of Ereinion's back. "By the Valar..."

Ereinion looked over his right shoulder at Círdan's quiet exclamation, one eyebrow raised in question. "What?"

The bearded elf took two steps forward, brushing a hand over the uneven skin on the left side of the former King's back. Ereinion suddenly realised what he must be seeing, and wanted to view the damage for himself. He moved so he was standing in front of the mirror on the short end of the counter, took a fortifying breath, and turned slowly to the right so that he could see his left side.

He immediately wished he hadn't. The entire left side of his back, from the side of his neck, down past the upper half of his arm to below the waistline of his leggings, was covered in a plateau of twisted, puckered skin, the remnants of his violent death at Sauron's hand. He toed off his boots and shucked off his leggings, twisting to see that the scar ran down the back of his leg, ending just above his knee, and spread halfway across his left buttock as well. 

He dimly remembered having twisted away from the fire so that his front was spared the brunt of it, but it had burned so hot and so fast that it didn't need to spread that far. It scorched straight through his armour and the cloth underneath, licking at his lung like it was sugar, and in some other places devouring enough skin and muscle to reveal bone. He had turned to save his face, but the fire caught on his hair and ate half of it away before he could even fall to his knees. As soon as the fire disintegrated his left lung he was as good as gone. Not even Elrond could have healed an injury like that.

Ereinion realised that he had closed his eyes and was gripping the sides of the basin for support against the force of the memory. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again, forcing himself to look at the scar. It was his reality and he had to get used to it.

The fact that Sauron's fire was too intense and short-lived to spread that far meant that the scar did not spread very far either. It was not small by any stretch of the imagination, but if Ereinion stood front-on, not even the very edges were visible. It was long, but not very wide. He held his left arm across his body so he could see the scarred part in the mirror, and ran the fingers of his right hand across the uneven skin.

Círdan cleared his throat, catching Ereinion's attention. He attempted a lighthearted tone, but didn't quite succeed. "Alright, come on. You can finish ogling yourself later. Into the bath with you, before the water gets cold."

The former King wordlessly complied, pausing only to remove his socks and put them with the rest of his clothes. The water was still wonderfully warm and he climbed in, luxuriating in the feel of the liquid against his skin and relaxing as the heat soothed his aching, disused muscles. 

Círdan took off his outer robe, leaving only leggings and a simple shirt. He picked up the little footstool from the corner of the room and brought it over to the head of the bathtub, fetching a silver cup and a washcloth on the way. He dropped the washcloth in the water. "Here, you wash yourself and I'll wash your hair." 

He then took the wide, rectangle shaped bucket from the top of the stool and placed it on the floor, then sat down on the stool. He picked the shampoo bottle up from the floor where he had placed it earlier, and began the task of washing Ereinion's long hair.

Ereinion picked up the soap from the ledge on the side of the bath, lathered the washcloth and did as he was told. Círdan gathered Ereinion's hair so it all hung out of the bathtub, dipped the cup in the water and poured it over the strands, letting the excess water run into the bucket, to be tipped out later. He had to drape Ereinion's hair across his legs to prevent it from touching the floor, such was the length. His leggings would end up sodden, he knew, but he was unconcerned. As a shipwright constantly exposed to sand and the sea, he had always favoured simple clothes that could be easily replaced if they happened to be irrevocably damaged over the course of his day. 

The bearded elf rinsed the shampoo out of Ereinion's hair, and glanced at his foster son to see that Ereinion had evidently finished washing, as he was now dragging the washcloth idly through the water, just underneath the surface. Círdan smiled.

"You need a little sailboat."

Ereinion laughed. "I was just thinking the same thing. It's strange to be in the bath with you washing my hair. I feel like a child."

"You _are_ a child," Círdan immediately countered. It was a long-running joke between them that no matter how old Ereinion got, he would always seem little more than an elfling to Círdan, who was one of the elves who had awoken at Cuiviénen.

Ereinion sighed in resigned amusement. "You know what I mean."

Círdan reached for the comb on the bathtub ledge. "It seems like only yesterday that you were a small child, cast adrift from everything you'd ever known. And yet it was so very, very long ago."

Ereinion had no answer for that and so was silent. Círdan finished combing Ereinion's hair and got up to fetch some towels. The former King stepped out of the bath - completely unconcerned about his nakedness in front of the elf that raised him - and let Círdan wrap one towel around him. The shipwright briskly dried Ereinion off, largely ignoring his foster son's protests that he was capable of doing it himself.

When his protestations fell on deaf ears Ereinion resigned himself to his fate and allowed himself to be dried like a child. He did not mind, really. It was beyond wonderful for Círdan to be fussing over him again. Círdan towelled the excess moisture from Ereinion's hair, and the younger elf put on the soft grey pyjamas that Círdan had brought in for him. They made their way back down to the kitchen and were joined in the hallway by Tirith, who always knew instinctively when it was mealtime.

Círdan fed the wolfhound and then fetched cold chicken, bread, cheese and some jam for his and Ereinion's supper. "I'm sorry that I don't have anything more fancy or substantial for your first dinner," he said as he set the food on the table. Ereinion waved the apology away.

"It's fine. Believe me, this looks like an absolute feast."

Ereinion tucked in with gusto, and as they ate, Círdan, judging it too late for heavy topics, told him about all of the ships he had built over the last Age: their names, how they sailed and what happened to them, as well as the various improvements that had been made in shipbuilding. The former King, having been raised by Círdan, loved sailing like a true shipwright's son, and listened happily. When they finished eating, Círdan made tea for them both and they relocated to the front room to drink it, still discussing ships. After a little while Ereinion was unable to contain his yawns and Círdan trailed off with a fond smile.

"I think it's bedtime."

"Mm," Ereinion agreed sleepily. "I think it is too. Sorry, you were in the middle of telling me something."

The bearded elf shook his head. "It's alright, I'll tell you tomorrow."

Ereinion nodded and followed his foster father back upstairs. He took a detour back into the bathroom to clean his teeth, and by the time he re-entered his bedroom Círdan had lit a fire and turned the bed down for him. Tirith was sitting in front of the fire. Ereinion let the shipwright tuck him in, and as soon as that was done Tirith abandoned his position on the hearth in favour of one on the bed next to Ereinion.

"You can't stay here," Ereinion said to the dog. "If you sleep here then Otaro will be lonely."

"No, he can stay," Círdan said. He sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed Ereinion's hair away from his face. "We walk the same shores once again, my child. I don't think I will ever feel lonely again."

Ereinion smiled, eyes bright with sudden joyful tears. "It's so good to be back."

Círdan leant down and kissed him on the forehead. "I will see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Otaro."

"Goodnight, _Hâlpen_."

Círdan stood up, extinguished the lantern and then paused in the doorway to look back at his foster son once more. Ereinion was already sleeping soundly and the shipwright smiled, feeling for the first time in a long time that nearly everything was all right in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hâlpen_ means "little fish".
> 
>  **Re: _Otaro_ -** I've always thought that Gil-galad would view Círdan as a kind of foster father (I'm not entirely sure about the actual canon but in my headcanon he lived with Círdan from a very young age), and Círdan would likewise see Gil-galad as a son. I suppose that since Círdan is Telerin he would have an aversion to Quenya, but I'm an Ereinion-son-of-Fingon person (I am aware of HoME canon but blatantly disregard it) so Quenya was probably little Gil's first language and therefore the one he defaulted to.
> 
> In the next chapter we will discover the significance of the first portion of the previous chapter and Ereinion will learn what happened to his body after he died.


	3. A simple question looking for an answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ethuil = April, Iavas = September. More or less. Technically Ethuil and Iavas are seasons (Spring and Late Summer/Early Autumn, respectively), but you get the drift. Also I know that I originally said we'd check back in with Elrond in this chapter but then I changed my mind. So, the next one. I promise. If the bit about Ereinion's scars seems familiar, that's because it is. I took it out of chapter 2 and put it here, because I think fits better here.
> 
> This chapter is longer than the last two chapters _combined_ , so you should probably go to the loo and/or get a drink and/or a snack before you start XD My gosh. I've been writing this chapter on and off for so long that it feels really odd to have finally finished it. 
> 
> This chapter has not been betaed as a whole, but I'm pretty sure it's fine. There's nothing in here that wasn't pre-approved by my beta in any case :P

_Mithlond_

Círdan woke the next morning before the dawn, as was his habit, and dressed in sturdy black breeches, a red linen shirt and a grey leather jerkin, suitable for a day on the sea. He was overseeing the first voyage of a ship that they had only just finished repairing after working on it for close to six months. It would take him out of the house for quite a few hours, and he paused in his study, still barefoot, to quickly write a note to his foster-son that would explain his absence. He blew on the ink as he quietly entered Ereinion's room, and placed the note on the bedside table, weighting it down by placing Ereinion's water glass on the corner. 

Still moving silently, he crossed to the window and opened the gauzy grey curtains so when the sun rose there'd be some light in the room. He turned back around to find that Tirith had awoken and was sitting patiently on the carpet.

He crouched down in front of his faithful companion and rubbed the dog behind the ears. "Ready to go?" he asked softly.

Tirith looked at him for a few moments, then stood and padded a few steps back towards Ereinion's bed, and then looked back at Círdan once more. Círdan smiled. "You want to stay and keep him company?"

Tirith whined quietly and wagged his tail.

"Alright then," Círdan acquiesced, patting the wolfhound on the head once more. "I'll see you in a few hours."

Tirith licked the shipwright's hand in farewell, and then leapt lightly onto the bed and curled back up next to Ereinion. Círdan followed him over and held his beard out of the way as he bent down to press a gentle goodbye kiss on Ereinion's forehead. The reborn elf barely stirred in reply, too far in the realm of dreams for the brief contact to register. The shipwright allowed himself one more moment to marvel at his foster son's return to life, then went to put on his boots and left the house to go to work.

~~~~~~

Ereinion awoke a few hours after the sun, disoriented for a moment until his brain caught up and he remembered what had happened and where he was. Movement on his left drew his attention, and he looked over at Tirith, who was watching him.

"Good morning," Ereinion greeted, his voice catching in his dry throat on the last syllable. He reached for his water glass and noticed the letter that was sitting underneath it. He leaned over to pick it up with his free hand and appraised the message, recognising the spidery hand that scuttled across the paper in uniformly straight lines.

> _Hâlpen -_
> 
> _Just letting you know that I will be out for a few hours this morning; we have been repairing a ship that was severely damaged in a collision with the headland not long ago, and it is finally seaworthy so today we're taking her out for a constitutional. (This is what I started to tell you last night, just before you went to bed.) I'm so sorry to leave you alone but this has to be done today because there's some heavy rain coming in that won't let up for a few days once it starts and we need to know whether she is seaworthy again as soon as possible. We're not going to sail very far - a little way up the Gulf and back, most likely, so I will be back around lunch time. Maybe sooner if the rain comes in quicker than we've anticipated._
> 
> _Everything is in the same place it always was, so if you need anything you know where to find it. Your clothes are packed in trunks in your wardrobe, but if you don't feel like unpacking feel free to borrow something of mine and I'll help you sort everything out when I get back._
> 
> _See you soon,  
>  Otaro_
> 
> _P.S. Tirith elected to stay and keep you out of trouble; please try and keep him out of trouble as well._

Ereinion smiled fondly at the postscript, and reached over to scratch the dog behind his ears. "Trouble? You? What's he talking about?" he teased. Tirith licked Ereinion's face and then settled down at the former King's side. Ereinion smiled and slung an arm over the dog, content to just lie there and snuggle for a few minutes.

After a while Tirith shifted out from under Ereinion's arm and leapt off the bed, moving to stand expectantly by the door. 

Ereinion moved up onto his elbows and looked at the wolfhound. "Is this your way of telling me it's breakfast time?" Tirith barked and wagged his tail, taking a few steps out into the corridor and turning back to look at Ereinion, who chuckled. 

"Alright, alright, I'm up." He rubbed his face and got out of bed, stretching briefly, before following the dog out of the door and down the stairs to the kitchen. 

~~~~~~

_The Gulf of Lhûn_

> _Dear Elrond-_
> 
> _I am writing to let you know that you can disregard my last letter. All is well._

Círdan sat in the Captain's cabin of the _HMS Anestáriel_ , and tapped the feathered end of his quill against his lips as he contemplated how to continue.

> _I appreciate that this will make about as much sense as my previous missive did - which is to say, none - but let me assure you that there is no need to worry. All will be explained in due course, but it is a tale better told in person. I promise to regale you with it the next time I visit your fair valley, in Echuir._

Círdan was just about to dip the quill in the ink pot, which sat in a nook that had been built into the surface of the desk, when a voice from the doorway startled him.

"Is it wise to catch up on your correspondence now, Círdan? Your handwriting is barely legible even when you're writing on solid ground."

The quill clattered quietly onto the corner of the wooden desktop and promptly slid off as the ship crested a wave. Círdan leaned down to retrieve it, shooting Galdor a mock glare as he straightened up.

"Insolent landlubber," he muttered as he turned back to the desk and surveyed it for spilled ink. He was pleased to note that there was none: the recessed ink pot had done its job well.

Galdor grinned and moved into the room, taking the seat across from Círdan at the desk. "Who are you writing to?"

"Elrond. Telling him not to concern himself with the missing body of the King."

The younger elf's eyes widened. "Did you get to the bottom of it?"

"I believe so," Círdan replied. He could feel Galdor's expectant anticipation and glanced up at his trusted friend. He smiled ruefully. "I don't think you'll believe me if I tell you."

Galdor considered this comment and the question he had originally come to ask, and he swallowed hard as the pieces fell into place. "It wouldn't...have anything to do with the person you picked up from the beach last night, would it?"

Círdan sighed. "We were seen?"

"From a distance. No one recognised the person with you, but it was assumed that someone had drunk a little too much and passed out." Galdor leaned forward. "Círdan, was it him? Has he returned?"

The shipwright was unable to suppress the grin that spread across his face. "Yes. Yes, he has been returned to us."

His grin was infectious and Galdor couldn't help but return it. He reached out and placed his hands over Círdan's, which were folded together and resting on the desktop. 

"That is wonderful news." Círdan had been more cheerful that morning than he had been in a long time, and now Galdor understood why. He had served the shipwright as confidant and emissary for many centuries, and knew how heavily the loss of Ereinion had weighed on him. That burden had been lifted, and the change was immediately visible.

"I would appreciate it if you did not tell anyone of this; at least not yet. He has not even been back for an entire day, and so much about his return is still uncertain."

Galdor nodded. "I understand. I will be as silent as the stars."

"Thank you, Galdor." Círdan moved his hands to grip those of the younger elf, and squeezed them in gratitude for a brief moment before letting go and reaching once again for his letter.

Galdor watched as the shipwright finished his letter and sanded it, glancing out of the cabin's window and appraising their distance from the heavy clouds on the horizon. "She's doing well," Círdan said. "Looks like we'll outrun that rain after all."

"Yes, I believe we will. You've done well with her, Círdan. You always do."

Círdan blew the excess sand off of the parchment and folded the letter. "Well, I better get back out on deck. It does not do for the captain to hide in his cabin on a ship's maiden voyage."

Galdor laughed and agreed. Círdan slid the letter into the inner breast pocket of his tunic and followed the younger elf up into the sunlight.

~~~~~~

_Mithlond_

Having successfully lit a fire to dispel the chill, Ereinion fed Tirith and then ate his fill of bread and jam, relishing at the simple but divine flavours and textures. 

"Jam is underrated," he said to the wolfhound, who was too busy eating his own breakfast to react. Ereinion shrugged and helped himself to another slice. Once that had been eaten he decided that three was enough, and got up to make himself a cup of tea, licking a drop of magenta deliciousness off his thumb as he went. He filled the kettle and boiled the water easily enough, and reached for the tea canister, thinking to himself as he pulled the lid off that not much had changed in three thousand years. He looked down into the canister and did a double take.

"...I was not expecting that," he murmured to himself. Instead of loose leaves, the canister was filled with tiny muslin bags. Ereinion picked one up and looked at it in bewilderment. There was a short length of string tied to the stitches at the top of the bag, and a small square of coloured paper tied onto the other end of the string. 

Ereinion peered closer at the muslin pouch and noticed that the contents resembled tea leaves. After a quick olfactory test, he decided that's what they were, and placed the bag into his mug, draping the string over the edge. After all, they were in the tea canister. What else would they be? 

He poured hot water into the mug, and learnt the hard way that it helps to hold onto the tag when the square rapidly travelled up the side of the mug and disappeared into the liquid. He turned away to get a spoon and, after waiting a moment to let the tea steep, fished the bag out and placed it to the side on the sink. He hadn't been watching when Círdan made their tea last night and so was unfamiliar with this new method, but it seemed simple enough. More convenient too, if one was only after one cup of tea, and involved less tealeaf wastage. He mixed in his milk and sugar and took a sip, closing his eyes in satisfaction.

He carried his mug up the stairs and sat it on his dressing table, and then quickly ducked into the bathroom to brush his hair and answer the call of nature before he faced the daunting task before him. He re-entered his bedroom and turned to face his wardrobe. He hated unpacking and was not looking forward to this at all. 

"It's now or never," he muttered. Ereinion took a deep breath to brace himself, and opened one of the doors.

Instead of being full of dusty trunks, all of his clothes were...hanging, neatly, exactly where he would have hung them. Confused, he opened the other two wardrobe doors and all of his drawers and found that the situation was the same in all of them. Ereinion stepped back, frowning. This was all very weird. He grabbed Círdan's letter from his bed and re-read it, just to make sure that it said what he thought it had said.

> _Your clothes are packed in trunks in your wardrobe, but if you don't feel like unpacking feel free to borrow something of mine and I'll help you sort everything out when I get back._

Yes, that was what he thought.

Ereinion looked at his neatly hanging clothes in bewilderment for another moment, then passed his hands over his face and decided to not question it. _'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth', as they say._ He successfully located his favourite tunic and grabbed a jerkin and some leggings to match, and changed into them. A pair of socks completed his outfit, and he picked up his tea and drank the rest of it on his way back to the staircase. He peeked into the storage room and saw the trunks that Círdan had presumably used to store his clothes stacked up neatly on one wall, now empty.

He went downstairs and put his mug with the other dishes that were in the sink, then wandered into the front room. Tirith was lying on the carpet in front of the hearth, exactly where Ereinion had left him. With a smile the reborn elf headed straight for the bookshelf, having decided that since his morning was unexpectedly free, the first thing he should do was catch up on recent history. He found a book, predictably written by Erestor, titled _In The Aftermath: A Firsthand Account of the Closing of the Second Age and the Dawning of the Third._ It sounded like exactly the book he needed. He briefly wondered if there were any more, but then decided that one would be enough to begin with, and sprawled onto the sofa to read it.

A couple of hours later Ereinion looked up from his reading to see that the clouds, which had been darkening slowly all morning, had now blocked out the majority of the daylight and were beginning to rumble quietly but ominously. Ereinion yawned and noticed that he was almost halfway through the book. It was not an easy era to read about, but Ereinion supposed that it was easier for him to read it than it had been for everyone else to live it.

"Definitely time for a break, I think. What say you?" He asked Tirith, who had tired of his position on the carpet and decided to wedge himself between the back of the sofa and Ereinion's legs. Tirith whined and yawned himself, which Ereinion took as assent. He got up and stretched, put some more wood on the fire, and set about lighting the lamps to brighten the room back up a bit. While lighting the lamp in the kitchen he caught sight of a ship returning down the Gulf, and recognised it as one of Círdan's. It looked to be about an hour out from the shore, and it would take at least a further half an hour for her to be docked and secured against the storm, not to mention the time it would take Círdan to actually arrive home. Ereinion decided that he would make lunch for his foster father. A brief search around the kitchen uncovered the ingredients he needed, and he lit the wood stove and set to work.

~~~~~~

Círdan sighed gratefully as he walked through the front door into his warm, bright house. He waved to Galdor who continued on his own way home, Círdan's letter in his pocket to send out in the morning with other missives bound for Imladris. Ereinion glanced up from his book, and if he noticed the look of wistful longing on his foster father's face, he said nothing. Tirith wasted no time in leaping off the lounge and bounding over to his master, who shut the door and crouched down to meet him.

"Hello you," he greeted, fielding licks to the face as he rubbed the wolfhound behind the ears. "Stay out of trouble? Good," he said when Tirith barked in agreement.

"Good trip?" Ereinion asked, greeting the shipwright with a hug when Círdan straightened up.

"Yes, it was. In actual fact I think she sails better now than she did before."

Ereinion chuckled. "I saw her come in, she's beautiful. What's her name?"

Círdan gave him a knowing smile. "Anestáriel."

Ereinion couldn't help but break into a surprised and delighted grin. The ship was named after his mother. He nodded, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. "It suits her."

"Aye. Something smells delicious," the shipwright said, changing the subject.

"Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

"Excellent," Ereinion beamed. "I made lunch. Fresh bread and vegetable soup."

Círdan made to follow his foster son to the table, and found that he was the one with an unexpected lump in his throat.

"What is it?" the younger elf asked when he turned and saw that Círdan had stopped. The shipwright shook his head.

"Nothing. Just...it is wonderful to come home to a house that isn't empty." His voice cracked on the last word and he buried his face in his hands, overcome with the realisation of how lonely he'd been for the last Age, and the knowledge that he no longer had to endure it.

Ereinion swiftly moved back over to where Círdan was standing and gathered his foster father into his arms. He, too, had realised how lonely Círdan must have been. All this time he had been thinking about Elrond, and it had never occurred to him that the shipwright might wish for his return just as much. He patted Círdan on the back as he rode out the wave of emotion that had broken over him. Tirith padded over to them and pressed his head against Círdan's leg, whining softly, and three of them held each other close for a few moments more. The bearded elf was the first to pull away, smiling somewhat ashamedly as he pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose.

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't be," Ereinion replied.

Círdan exhaled. "Now, lunch. I really am starving."

Ereinion laughed and they moved over to the table. He put a bowl full of soup in front of Círdan and set out the bread and butter, then fed Tirith once again and sat down to his own portion.

The storm broke just as they finished their meal, and Círdan swore quietly.

"I was hoping I'd have time to go out and make sure everyone was prepared before the rain hit," he said in reply to Ereinion's questioning expression. He watched the rain through the kitchen window for a few seconds, and then stood. "I better go out anyway, just to make sure."

Ereinion also stood, following the shipwright to the door. "Do you need my help?"

Círdan sighed. "I probably would, but it's better if you stay here. There's a time and place to announce your return, and it's not in the middle of a storm."

The reborn elf nodded in understanding. Círdan patted Tirith and told him to stay there with Ereinion. The former king handed Círdan his coat and a lantern. The shipwright slipped into his coat and took then lantern, bid farewell, and stepped out into the gloom.

~~~~~~

Círdan returned a few hours later and, after assuring his foster son that no person or building had or would come to any serious harm, immediately disappeared into the bathroom to wash away the rain and mud that had accumulated on his person. Ereinion waited to hear the sound of the water draining out of the tub, and then got up and put the kettle over the fire to boil. By the time Círdan was dried and dressed, the tea was ready, and the shipwright sank onto the couch and gratefully drank of the warm liquid. Ereinion drank his own tea and left Círdan in peace for a moment, but after a while the thoughts that had been plaguing him since the previous evening become too much for him to hold in.

"Otaro, can I ask you something?"

Círdan looked at his foster son over the rim of his mug. "Of course."

"How much do you know about the passage of time in Arda in relation to the passage of time in Valinor?"

"Almost nothing, hâlpen; I have only ever lived on this side of the ocean. Why do you ask?"

"I am not sure how much time has passed here, but to my reckoning it has only been three and a half weeks since Celebrían arrived in Aman, and she said that the journey down the Straight Road took around sixty days. Is that the same amount of time?"

"No," Círdan answered, "Celebrían left on Ethuil 6; it is now Iavas 26. That's 150 days, almost three seasons."

Ereinion frowned. "But doesn't rebirth usually take years? I thought that surrogate parents must be found to create a body, and then that body must reach maturity before memories of the first life are returned. And yet," he continued, "here I am, fully grown, with all the memories of my past life, and no matter what timing you use, it has not even been six months. I understand that the rules of time do not apply to the Valar as they apply to us, but I would have thought it impossible to require a mature body - much less one that looks the same as my other one - within that small space of time. Even for them."

"Ah," Círdan replied. "I wondered when this would come up."

The shipwright put down his mug, caught his foster son's eyes, and elaborated in his customary roundabout fashion. "Firstly, there is no 'usual' in this case. An elf has been reborn into Arda from Mandos precisely once before, and that was Glorfindel. In his case he was literally reborn, albeit to a different set of parents - the sister and brother-in-law of his original father - and a body was created for him through the usual channels of conception and gestation. He started again, from the very beginning. I would not call what happened with you a 'rebirth', but a 'rehousing'. That's not a replica of your body, it _is_ your body. It's the only one you've ever had, and the only one you will ever have. But I'll get back to that in a minute.

"After you died, Elrond refused to let us build a customary pyre for you. He said that he wouldn't be able to stand there and watch you burn a second time...and that if we made him do so, he would cast himself into the flames with you." 

Círdan was silent for a moment, remembering.

_"Elrond, he is dead," Erestor had said, ever the voice of logic. "He will not feel it."_

_"I know that," snapped Elrond. "I am not an idiot. It is not that I don't want him to experience incineration a second time. I don't want to have to_ watch _him be incinerated a second time. You cannot make me watch that again. If you do,_ I _will be the one being incinerated and_ you _will be watching."_

_Erestor was wide-eyed and silent in the face of Elrond's vehemence._

_Elrond passed a hand over his face. "He will not be cremated. I refuse to allow it."_

Ereinion's only other close blood relative was his sister Eäthiriel who had stayed behind in Forlond as Queen Regent. As such, in that tent Elrond was the King's closest kin, and it was known that even though no vows had been spoken, their souls were bound together. As far as everyone present was concerned, Elrond had the spousal right to make funerary decisions. His word was final. And so it had been obeyed.

"I would not have called it insanity, but...he was not quite in his right mind, at least." Círdan added, seeing that Ereinion had raised his eyebrows in shock upon learning of Elrond's ultimatum. "It was entirely understandable, under the circumstances; and I must admit the idea of cremating you did not sit well with me either, given the nature of your death." Círdan had seconded Elrond's wishes in that impromptu council meeting, so even without Elrond's blood and pseudo-marital ties to the King, the cremation would not have happened. The shipwright had fostered many children throughout his long years, but none had felt quite so much like his own children as Ereinion and his sister. He felt as Elrond did that watching Ereinion burn once was once too many, and to witness it again, even taking place in such a commonplace ceremony, would have been unbearable.

"We did end up making a pyre of your belongings, and we performed all of the rites and said all of the words to give your spirit the necessary send-off. After the fire had burnt out and we had turned to leave, Elrond turned back, and walked into the remains of the fire. He told me later that a flash of silver had caught his eye. Out of the ashes he picked up Aeglos - spear handle included, your crown and the standard he had carried for you. None of them had burned at all, or showed any damage whatsoever. Your crown and the spearhead were not even slightly warm; it was as if the fire had remade them instead of destroying them. None of us were sure what it meant. I'm still not, although now I suppose it might have been a sign that one day you would return to us on these shores. Or perhaps it is something entirely different. Only the Valar know.

"Later that night I went into the tent where we were keeping your body and found Elrond at your side. By that stage words were superfluous, and I knew that if I asked after his wellbeing he simply would not answer, so I merely sat down on your other side and kept vigil with him. Some elves had been buried, as their remaining kin and friends felt as we did about cremation. After a while, Elrond said that he did not want to bury you either, because he suspected that in a few hundred years the marshland of Emyn Muil would spread out to what had become our burial ground. He was right, it did. The earth became soft and the bodies it concealed were dislodged, and many rose to the surface and are still visible. Men call it the Dead Marshes, and the legend is that dark spirits have overtaken the waters and the bodies of the Elves buried there, and now haunt the marsh, waylaying unwary travellers and leading them to a watery death."

Marsh-wights. Ereinion shuddered, grateful beyond words that he had not ended up like that.

"And then Elrond asked me what we were going to do, if both burning and burial were out of the question," Círdan continued. A small smile crossed his face. "He was already so wise and knew so much, but there were yet limits to what he knew of elves and the nature of our immortality."

The shipwright glanced up and saw that Ereinion had cocked his head and was looking at him with a perplexed frown. "Ah, you don't know either," Círdan murmured to himself.

"Know what?"

"Tell me, young one: what does immortality mean?"

"It means that if we are not killed by violence or sorrow, we will live forever, free from the ravages of time."

"Free from the ravages of time," Círdan echoed. "Yes. That is an excellent choice of words. 

He smiled when he saw that Ereinion was still confused. "We are constant, hâlpen. Our bodies grow to maturity and then the changes cease, and unless we are subject to injury or rare illness, no circumstances can induce further change."

Ereinion felt as though he was on the brink of a revelation. "Are you telling me...that dead elves don't decompose?"

Círdan nodded, once. "The bodies of elves, unlike those of men or dwarves, do not decay. We are, to use your words, free from the ravages of time. From _all_ ravages of time, regardless of whether we are living or not."

Ereinion nodded slowly, absorbing this new information. "So what happened to me? 

_A few hours after midnight, exhaustion and pain overtook the shipwright and his young companion, and both slipped into an uneasy doze. After a while Círdan dimly realised that Elrond was saying his name and he forced his eyes open to see what the matter was._

_"Círdan, look at his face," Elrond said, looking at the King. Círdan leant forward and noticed with some shock that the horrific burns were...gone. Ereinion's face was whole, his skin clear and unmarred, and it looked for all the world like he was just sleeping._

_Elrond looked at the King's newly-healed face in a state of similar confusion, until a flash of light caught his eye. He glanced at Ereinion's chest to see a silver chain coiled neatly on top of the sheet, the perfectly formed teardrop pearl pendant sitting on top of the chain. His hand flew to his throat, where the necklace should have been residing, but his skin was bare._

_"Did you take it off?" Círdan asked. Elrond shook his head. He picked the necklace up and slipped it back over his head, and then reached a shaky hand forward to touch the new skin on Ereinion's face._

_"It's...real," he breathed. "It's- it isn't a glamour. It's as if, as if his face wasn't burnt at all."_

_He looked up at the shipwright, his hand unconsciously moving to his neck to toy with the pendant. "Do you think Nienna did this?"_

_"Yes. If not her, then one of the others. But I'd be willing to bet it was her. You have that pearl for a reason."_

_Elrond's mind was swirling with too many thoughts and emotions for any to be singled out, and all he could do was cover his face with his hands and try to breathe deeply._

_"What are we going to do?" the half-elf asked again when he had himself under some semblance of control._

_"There is something," Círdan replied. "I didn't mention it before because of his face, but now..."_

_"What?"_

_"It is customary to make memorial displays in the Hall of Kings for our fallen leaders. What if, instead of a memorial, we have a glass-topped coffin made and place his body there instead?"_

_"A glass-topped coffin?" Elrond repeated. "Like in_ Fanuilos _?"_

Círdan smiled. "That was a rather fitting comparison to draw, given the circumstances."

The memory of the human folk tale drifted to the front of his mind and Ereinion couldn't help but return the smile. Círdan continued.

 _"Yes," Círdan replied simply. "Like_ Fanuilos _."_

_Elrond frowned. "But that couldn't work. He would-"_

_The half-elf paused as a breeze swept through the tent, bringing with it the scent of...smoke and dirt and blood, but it was nowhere near the stench that he would have expected from a battlefield. For the first time Elrond realised what it was that he_ didn't _smell._

_Decay._

_He calculated the amount of dead bodies there had been on the field, how many had been humans and how many had been elves and subtracted the amount that had already been buried or burnt. He then compared that number to the relatively faint scent of decay that he could detect. It did not match. Moreover, the air in the tent didn't match. He could smell the blood and sweat on his own body as well as that on Círdan's, but Ereinion's body didn't smell like anything. Sitting in front of it as he was, the stench of death and decay should have been immediately noticeable, and, for that matter, overpowering. He looked up at Círdan, his thoughts written on his face like words on parchment._

_"No indeed, he would not."_

_"Elves don't decay," Elrond said, mostly to himself. Everything clicked into place. "We don't bury our dead because there's no point. Our bodies don't break down and therefore do not nourish the soil, and if every elf who had ever died on a battlefield was buried..."_

_"We would have run out of land by now," Círdan finished for him. "And the Belegaer would be overrun with displaced dead from Beleriand."_

_"Why doesn't anyone know this?" Elrond asked. A second later, his mind answered the question for him and he shook his head. "Stupid question. Necromancy. The last thing we need is for every person and creature to know that elven bodies can be kept indefinitely. They would start specifically acquiring them."_

_"Yes."_

_Elrond took a breath and looked back down at Ereinion's peaceful face. He reached out and brushed his hand over the soft ebony hair. "I don't know if having him there, visible, will make it any easier, but..." he raised his head to meet the shipwright's eyes, "I would like that. I'd like to know that I can go and see him sometimes, even if I can't_ see him _. I suppose that's very human of me."_

_"Not at all," Círdan replied. "I feel the same. Very well, I will make the arrangements. And you, young one, need to go and sleep in your cot under some furs, not sitting here on the cold hard ground. I will keep vigil."_

_"You need to sleep also," Elrond protested. "I am not the only one who lost him."_

_Círdan smiled, sadly. "I have lost my son, yes, but you have lost a part of yourself. I know you're at your limit, Elrond. It's alright, I will manage a little longer. Go."_

_The half-elf hesitated a moment, and then nodded. Círdan stood and embraced him, and with one last look at the body of the elf he loved, Elrond left the tent._

"Otaro? Are you still with me?"

Círdan took a deep breath and roused himself from reverie, having fallen silent after voicing Elrond's wish to be able to visit the King's body. "I was just remembering." He sighed. "So we brought you home, and put you in the Hall of Kings. The coffin was a gift from the dwarves that had fought with us, as thanks and acknowledgement of the hand we played in defeating the enemy. A few days before you arrived here, your body...disappeared. There was no sign of forced entry on the coffin, nothing to suggest foul play. It was just gone. Trying to figure out what happened kept me up at night until I found you on the beach, and then everything slipped into place. So there you have it. We kept your body, and the Valar took it to give back to you."

Ereinion nodded slowly, absorbing the information. "You said that Sauron had been defeated. So he's still gone, even though the Ring was not destroyed?"

Círdan glanced at the reborn elf in surprise, who held up the book he had been reading.

"Ah. No, it was not. Isildur kept it until it abandoned him early in the Second Age. It has neither been seen nor heard from again. At the moment, at least, all is well. But for how long, I cannot say."

"Do you think that's part of the reason why they sent me back, and why it happened so fast? Because Sauron will return and Arda will need me?"

"I don't know, hâlpen. Perhaps."

Círdan was curious as to how Ereinion's reincarnation had come about, but he took in the look on his foster son's face and decided that was a question for another day. "Well, it's time for dinner, I think. What say you?"

"Sure," Ereinion replied, he yawned as he followed Círdan into the kitchen, taking his book with him. Círdan smiled.

"Good thing Erestor wrote an entire saga of Second Age Histories," he said.

"Yes," Ereinion agreed with a short laugh. "I'll be caught up and ready to go back out into the real world in no time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to the Desolation of Smaug for making glamour canon.
> 
> This chapter's title is a line from the song _Dela_ by Johnny Clegg and Savuka. You can listen here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IqEiJ-kHgmI
> 
> Elrond's teardrop pearl pendant is not an arbitrary thing. It has quite a bit of significance in my headcanon but this chapter was already long enough without boring you with explanations of THAT as well. There will an explanation ficlet for that at some point in the future.
> 
> The stuff about elven funerary rituals and the reasons for them is something that developed purely because I needed an explanation for the preservation of Ereinion's body that didn't involve mummification (what even was I thinking with that) or rely on the suspension of belief required for Ereinion to have been preserved on Arda the way Miriel was in Valinor. It's not a canon thing or even a fanon thing, just something that occurred to me that I thought would make a really good explanation.


	4. Could we start again, please?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't yet read [_One Hundred_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1085320), I strongly recommend that you do so, because the events of that ficlet play a pretty big role here.
> 
> This chapter is set about two or three weeks after the last one. I'd give you an exact date but my timeline is still all over the place because this has been revised so many times, so please bear with me. It's around the time of the Enderi, which separate Iavas (early autumn) from Firith (late autumn).
> 
> This chapter gets a bit strange, but stick with it. It may not be what you think.

_Imladris_

Elrond was strolling down an aisle in the library, looking for a certain historical text that he could remember nothing about, save that it was bound in green leather, when Erestor called out to him.

"Elrond, the post is here."

The half-elf abandoned his search and headed over to the reception desk where Erestor was thumbing through a pile of envelopes, checking the seals and sorting them into, presumably, urgent and non-urgent piles. Erestor thrust a single letter at the half-elf.

He barely took the time to say "it's from Círdan," before going back to his sorting.

Elrond raised an amused eyebrow at Erestor's young apprentice Annaeth, who smiled back and shrugged.

"Did you find the book you were looking for?" she asked.

Elrond shook his head. "No. I think it's called _The First Horse-Lords_ , or something to that effect. But I don't remember who wrote it which is making it harder to find."

"Is that the one with the horsehead on the top of the spine? Bound in green leather with gold leaf lettering, written by what’s-his-face? The one with the beard?"

Elrond nodded, "Yes that's the one."

"I know where that is, hold on!" Ann practically leapt out of her chair and disappeared down one of the aisles in search of the elusive tome.

Elrond smiled at her enthusiasm and turned his attention to the letter in his hand. Erestor finished his sorting as Elrond read through it, and took note of the deep frown on his friend's face.

"What is it? What does he say?"

Elrond shook his head. "I don't...it makes no sense." He turned the page over in search of more writing, but there was none. "It says," he began, looking up at his advisor, "that Ereinion's body is gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes, apparently. He says 'In short, the King's body is missing. I woke in the night with the feeling that I needed to go to the Hall of Kings, and when I got there the casket was empty. The glass was intact and the locks show no sign of being forced. It's as if he was never in there at all.'"

Erestor was baffled. "But...who would take it? And for what purpose? This isn't some human's sensational mystery novel, people don't _actually_ go around stealing bodies. Especially not Elves."

"Maybe he's been reborn," Ann suggested as she returned, the subject of Elrond's search in her arms. She placed it down on the table in front of the elf lord. "It was in the wrong section. I noticed it yesterday when I had my hands full and forgot to go back and move it."

"Thank you," Elrond said. "Did you say 'reborn'?"

Ann nodded. "Embrethil's friend Colyávëwen has a cousin whose mother's friend's daughter...or was it sister?...anyway, whoever it was said they saw him in Mithlond."

Elrond raised his eyebrows. "Busy elf. That's, what, the twenty-fifth time he's been reborn this century?"

"Maybe it's true this time?" Erestor suggested.

Elrond shook his head and picked up the green book. "Erestor, I've heard this rumour far too many times for it to ever be true. Even if the Valar did take it for him, it's probably so he can be re-bodied in Valinor." He sighed. "Nienna, give me strength. I know this is everyone's favourite rumour but I wish they would just _stop_. For those of us who actually knew him, it just...hurts."

He crumpled up the letter and put it in his pocket, then indicated the book in his arms. "I have to take this to the bookshop. Colm needs to borrow it so he can make a copy. Keep the place running, will you?"

Erestor nodded and Elrond turned and left the room.

Ann looked worriedly at her mentor. "Was that me? Did I upset him?"

Erestor shook his head. "It's alright, Ann. Elrond won't be upset with you. He's right, we've heard this rumour far too often now. The first few times we hoped it would be true, but it never was and hoping just started to hurt. Somedays, even hearing it is enough to cause him pain."

"They loved each other, didn't they?" she asked quietly. "As more than just friends."

"Yes," her mentor said with a sigh. He gave her a searching look. "How did you know?"

She shrugged. "It's there in all the texts, if you know how to read between the lines. The chroniclers are forthcoming about the specific nature of every other relationship except theirs. It was the fact that everyone's so vague about it that made me wonder. And now..."

"...no one ever speaks of Gil-galad," Erestor finished with a rueful smile. "Especially not in front of Elrond." Ann nodded. 

"That's very perceptive of you," he praised. "Not many people have picked up on that, well done."

Annaeth glowed under the compliment as Erestor gathered up his papers. "Alright, kid. Looks like it's me and you in charge today. Let's go."

Ann smiled and hopped off her chair again to follow him out into the house.

*~*~*~*

_"I've been living to see you_  
_Dying to see you, but it shouldn't be like this_  
_This was unexpected, what do I do now?_  
_Could we start again, please..."_

*~*

_In short, the King's body is missing..._

_missing..._

_The King..._

The words that had troubled Elrond all day haunted his sleeping mind as hissing whispers. Missing, Círdan had said. There one day and inexplicably gone the next; the locks unforced, the glass unbroken. There was no need to specify which King it was. Only one King's body was kept there. Elrond frowned in his sleep, his dream-self opening his eyes to find himself in Mithlond's Hall of Kings. He walked through the hallway, past the standards of various fallen kings, Sindar and Noldor alike, to the one he was seeking.

He always knew the way to Ereinion's memorial, but it was even more familiar to him now, given that he had visited it just three seasons past when escorting Celebrían to the Havens so she could sail. Elrond's dream-self closed his eyes again as the wave of recent heartache crashed over the rocky shore of the ever-present pain of the past.

He opened his eyes and saw the glinting gold edge of Ereinion's standard, hanging above the ledge that held his coffin. Filled with apprehension but unable to stop, he moved forward. A few steps more revealed that the casket was indeed empty. 

_"My Lord!"_

The voice calling Elrond's name was distorted, as if heard from under water. His dream-self had no time to react to the absence of Ereinion's body as his mind began to kick itself to the surface of sleep. After two more repeats of his name, it managed to emerge into the daylight. Elrond passed his hands over his face and succeeded in getting onto his feet, staggering sleepily to the door of his rooms and opening it to find a page, who was looking unnaturally alert for such an early hour of the morning.

"Yes?"

"There are travellers approaching the border. Erestor thinks one of them is Círdan, and told me to wake you up to tell you."

Elrond frowned as his mind slowly processed this information. "Erestor told you...to wake me up because Círdan is arriving."

"Yes, my Lord."

Elrond didn't see how this news was important enough to warrant specifically waking him up to hear it, but he brushed it off. He should probably be awake anyway. "Who is the other?"

"I don't know, sir. They're wearing a cloak with the hood up."

"Alright. Thank you, I'll be down directly."

The page nodded and hurried off on his next errand.

Elrond wearily shut the door of his rooms and went to make himself presentable. It took substantially less time to do so than he was anticipating, so it felt like only minutes later that he was on his way. 

He entered his study and sat down to begin the day by reading his correspondence. He had just opened the first letter when Erestor appeared in front of the desk. Elrond glanced up and jumped.

"Círdan and his companion will be here in an hour," Erestor announced serenely, oblivious to the heart attack he had nearly caused.

"By the Valar, Erestor!" Elrond pressed a hand against his pounding heart. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Sorry," Erestor said mildly.

"An hour, did you say?" Elrond repeated. "But they were beyond the border not long ago," he continued when Erestor nodded.

"They aren't wasting any time," Erestor replied. "Their errand must be important."

"Yes," Elrond agreed. He frowned at the letter in his hands. He knew there were words on the page, but he couldn't concentrate on any of them long enough to make them out. A glance up at Erestor's face revealed a similar inability to concentrate. Elrond blinked to clear his vision but couldn't get it to cooperate.

"Are you alright?"

Elrond nodded. "Yes. I think I'm getting a headache."

He was just reaching up to rub his temples when the gate-horns sounded the approach of the travellers.

Elrond looked up sharply in the direction of the window, and then at Erestor. "I thought you said an hour!"

Erestor just shrugged. "I'll go down and meet them." He opened the door to leave and found that Círdan and his mysterious hooded companion were already standing outside the door.

"Mae govannen, Otaro," Erestor greeted, hugging his foster father. If he was surprised at the haste of their arrival, he didn't show it.

"I apologise for not being in the courtyard to meet you," Elrond said, standing and moving out from behind his desk, "but I'm afraid you arrived rather too quickly for us to get there. Do you have wings on your boots?"

"I wish I did," Círdan grinned, letting go of Erestor, who went back to his own study with little more than a curious glance at Círdan's companion. "It has been a very long and difficult trip. I feel like we have been travelling for days just to get here from the border," the shipwright continued.

"Truly? It feels like scarcely hours for my part." Elrond looked at the hooded traveller, and a curious, shivery feeling shot down his spine. "Who is your companion?"

"Ah," Círdan smiled a knowing smile and turned to the hooded figure. "Hâlpen, I will leave this one to you."

_Hâlpen? But...no, it can't be..._

The shipwright slipped out of the room. Elrond registered in the back of his mind that being left alone with an unknown person was not a good situation to be in, but he could not move or cry out even if he wanted to. The figure stepped forward, lifted his hands to the edge of his hood, and flicked it back.

Elrond stared at him in shock. The surreal, blurred-at-the-edges quality the world had had all morning suddenly disappeared. Everything snapped into acute clarity, then hazed, and then he saw nothing.

*~*~*~*

"Elrond? Elrond!"

"Stop shouting," he muttered. He became aware that he was lying on the carpet, his torso supported by a pair of solid, muscled arms that were wonderfully familiar. He opened his eyes with some effort and looked at the long-unseen face that was smiling at him.

"O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, and the sound of a voice that is still," Elrond murmured, still not quite with it.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, never mind. Sorry." Elrond shook the last of the cobwebs from his mind and sat up, disentangling himself reluctantly from those arms. He passed a hand over his face. "Did I pass out?"

"Yes," Ereinion replied.

Elrond regarded the elf in front of him, still not quite believing his eyes. "Ereinion."

"Yes."

"You're...alive."

"Yes."

Elrond nodded, slowly. "...Why?"

Ereinion shrugged. "I don't know. I don't remember anything after the...the fire."

"Nothing?"

Ereinion shook his head.

"This doesn't make sense," Elrond whispered. "Nothing about this day makes sense."

He sighed, and then smiled at Ereinion. "It is so good to see you."

Ereinion grinned back at him and leaned forward to wrap him in a hug. "You too. I have missed you, my friend."

Elrond was troubled by the strangely impersonal endearment, but put his worry aside and hugged back. So much about this situation was uncertain, on both their parts, so perhaps it was best for them both to err on the side of caution when it came to interacting with each other.

Their hug was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," came Erestor's voice, "but news has spread so Ereinion should probably come out and make himself known."

"How does he know it was you?" Elrond asked. Ereinion shrugged again as he stood up. "Maybe Círdan told him."

He put a hand out to Elrond, who took it and allowed the reborn elf to pull him to his feet. Elrond dusted himself off and straightened his robes and followed Ereinion out of the study to reintroduce him to the world.

*~*~*~*

Later that night, after a full day of introductions and a lavish welcome feast, Elrond and Ereinion were relaxing with a glass of wine each in front of the fire in Ereinion's room. 

"You look as if you've never seen this room before," Ereinion commented, watching Elrond look around with interest.

The half-elf laughed once. "I just...forgot that it looked so much like your chambers in Forlond. I was sure it was blue, not red." He shook his head. "Never mind, I must be remembering wrong. It has been a very strange day, after all."

Ereinion smiled and nodded and agreement. "That it has. I wanted them to be as much like my other chambers as possible," he added after a minute.

"Hm?"

"These rooms," Ereinion explained. "They're an almost exact replica. So it would feel more like home."

"I thought Imladris was your home." That's what Ereinion had always said. After spending most of his life in Balar, Forlond had always felt too transient and temporary to be like home for him, even after it became the biggest city in Forlindon. It was even less like home when Elrond moved east and built his own city. But Elrond distinctly remembered finding Ereinion on his balcony one night with an unfamiliar expression on his face. When asked, the King had said that he felt like he belonged in Imladris in ways that he never had anywhere else. Even after being there for less than an entire day, he felt like he had lived there his whole life.

"Imladris is everyone's home," Ereinion replied, startling Elrond out of his thoughts by vocalising the same words that the half-elf had, all of those years ago. But the tone was different, slightly mocking and sarcastic. Ereinion smiled to soften the effect, then went back to looking at the fire.

Elrond frowned for what seemed like the thousandth time that day. Something was wrong, he had felt it ever since he woke up. He glanced at his glass of wine and took a sip, thinking perhaps there was something in it that shouldn't be there. It was not the best wine, oddly tasteless for vintage Dorwinion, but it seemed innocent enough. Regardless, he put it aside. He needed to go and sleep this off, whatever it was.

"I should go," he said quietly. Ereinion looked a bit sad at the prospect, but nodded. They stood and embraced, and when they broke apart Elrond hesitated as he turned to leave. There was something he had wanted to do ever since Ereinion had appeared in his study, but he had resisted it all day. Heart pounding, he threw caution to the wind and grasped Ereinion's face, leaning in to press their lips together.

Ereinion went motionless in surprise...and did not relax. Elrond immediately stepped back, now absolutely sure that things were not as they should be.

"What was that for?" Ereinion asked, genuinely confused.

"What do you mean, 'What was that for'?"

Ereinion shook his head. "I did not know your tastes ran such ways."

"What? Of course you do! We-" A sudden, sick realisation dawned on Elrond. "Ereinion, what happened in your study the day before my centenary?"

The reborn elf frowned, not following this sudden change of topic. "We... played chess, I expect."

"You're not even going to accuse me of cheating on that game?"

"No, you never cheat. Elrond, what is going on?"

It was a long-running in-joke of theirs that Elrond had made an illegal move in order to get the upper hand that day, and then somehow hidden the rulebook so that Ereinion couldn't check. Elrond took a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself. If Ereinion didn't remember that day, what else didn't he remember?

Elrond could barely bring himself to ask, but he knew he had to. "What about on my centenary? You threw me a begetting day party. What happened afterwards?"

"We went back to my rooms for a nightcap."

Elrond brought a hand to his mouth, hardly daring to hope. "And then?"

"You...went to your rooms and I went to sleep."

Elrond broke.

He hid his face in his hands as his heart seized. The strange lack of intimacy that he had first noticed in his study and that had been present all day now made sense. He wished it didn't. "You don't remember. Valar have mercy, you don't remember."

Ereinion was alive again. Alive, but without the memories of their relationship. Three thousand years of the deepest, truest love Arda had ever known, and Ereinion remembered none of it. Elrond knew that everything had a price, but he had never dared to think that the Valar would be so cruel as to give Ereinion back to him but ensure they were kept apart in the most brutal of ways.

"Remember what? Elrond..."

Ereinion had moved forward in concern when Elrond's shoulders started to tremble. He put a hand out in an attempt to comfort him. "My friend..."

Elrond abruptly straightened and moved away. "Don't! Do not touch me. I- I have to go." He bowed hastily, struggling to keep his voice from breaking. "Goodnight, my lord, I apologise if my actions have caused offence. I fear I am not myself. Goodnight."

"Elrond, wait!"

Elrond didn't turn back, but headed straight for the door that adjoined their rooms. _Since when were these rooms adjoined?_ Once again, it did not seem right, but he brushed it off in his need to be anywhere but in that room. He made it through the door moments before Ereinion reached it, and closed and bolted it from his side. As an afterthought, he stumbled to the main door of his apartment and bolted that too.

He tried to breathe deeply as he opened his eyes and looked around. His rooms looked strange too. His bedroom should be to the left, where that door was, but the bed was visible instead through the door on his right. He could hear the waterfall rushing past but couldn't see it through the balcony doors. It looked like these were the rooms he'd had in Forlond, but how could they be here in Rivendell?

He felt sick. Everything hurt, inside and out, and he was dizzy. He pushed himself away from the door and took a step, aiming for the bedroom, but never made it. The spinning in his head intensified and his knees buckled. He only just managed to catch himself on his hands before he hit the floor.

He could feel his grip on the present beginning to slip as a vision took over.

"No...no, _please_ , not now..."

His pleas did nothing, and Elrond fought against it even as he opened his inner eyes to find himself in the courtyard at the palace in Forlond. He could hear traditional wedding music playing and he looked up at the couple on the stairs.

It was Ereinion, and a woman he didn't know.

Mithrandir was presiding, and was speaking about how Ereinion's return was a gift from the Valar and how Elvenkind could only benefit from having its High King back. He wished them a long and prosperous marriage, blessed with many children.

Elrond turned to his right and nearly melted with relief when he saw Ereinion's sister sitting there.

"Eäthiriel, what is going on?"

"It's a lovely service, Elrond," she replied, as if she hadn't heard what he'd said. "You really outdid yourself this time." 

"I organised this?"

She nodded. "How nice it is for him to finally be able to marry his childhood sweetheart," she said, her voice dreamy.

"He didn't have a childhood sweetheart..." The closest thing Ereinion had had was a crush on one of his teachers. One of his _male_ teachers.

Eäthiriel didn't reply. He frowned at her and turned back to the couple just in time to see them kiss. It lasted for much longer than etiquette and protocol required, and as the people around him cheered, Elrond felt like he was being split open.

He opened his eyes again and found himself in a nursery, looking down at a tiny elfling in a cradle. It was undoubtedly Ereinion's child.

"I'm glad you could make it, Elrond," said a voice. Elrond glanced up and saw the elf woman Ereinion had married. She smiled, the expression kindly enough but still distant, as she walked towards the cradle. "Ereinion wishes that you could spend more time here."

He didn't answer but she didn't expect him to. She gazed adoringly down at her baby. "Elflings never cease to be a marvel to me, even though we have three already. How are your children?"

Elrond opened his mouth to answer but found that he couldn't. A strange ache was crawling through his empty chest that he couldn't place, despite its familiarity.

"My love," Ereinion admonished from the doorway. "Elrond's children made their Choice. They passed from this life many years ago."

His children chose mortality?

No.

_No..._

The scene shifted, sparing him from the pitying looks of Ereinion and his queen and putting him instead under the gaze of Námo himself.

"What do want from me?" the Vala asked.

"Peace," Elrond heard himself saying. "Please. I have nothing and no one here. Let me have oblivion."

"Mmm. Your brother and children chose mortality, your wife denounced you when she learned their fate. Your parents do not know you, Maglor and Maedhros are forsaken. Your King, for whom you have nursed a one-sided love for your entire life, is married to someone else."

"My Lord, I know this," Elrond said quietly. Námo did not reply, and was silent for a long time. It was only when Elrond began to find the sound of his own heartbeat monotonous and unbearable that the Vala spoke again.

"Denied."

Elrond glanced up sharply. "What?"

"Your request for oblivion is denied. You will be alone for the rest of your days. This is your punishment."

"P-punishment?"

"You turned from your true path when you developed affection for the kinslayers. They were your captors and yet you loved them like you never loved your parents."

"My parents didn't l-"

"YOU WERE NOT WORTHY OF THEIR LOVE!"

Elrond shrank away from the Vala's wrath.

"That is why they left you. Regardless, you should have stayed true to them. You failed elsewhere too. You became a healer of great repute, and yet you failed to heal your King, causing his death. You failed to heal your wife. You failed to heal the broken hearts of your children. You will live forever, unloved and alone, with nothing and no one to soothe your soul. Even my sister has forsaken you. This is your lot and your fate."

"No, my Lord...please..."

"Be gone."

Námo waved his hand and Elrond found himself outside of the gates of Mandos, unable to get in and with nothing waiting for him without.

The numbness that had infused him for the last age suddenly gave way to a searing pain unlike any he had ever known. The weight of his failures and shortcomings crashed down onto him, forcing him to his knees. The reality of an eternity alone broke over him like a tidal wave, and he could not stand it.

He took a deep breath, and screamed. It was an unearthly sound that burned his tortured throat, but he couldn't stop until he ran out of breath. When that happened he found himself simply inhaling and starting again. When that one too broke off, he closed his eyes, and when he opened them again he saw the carpet of his rooms.

His head jerked up and he looked around him. His Forlond rooms, inexplicably in Imladris. Any relief he might have felt disappeared when he remembered that Ereinion was in the adjoining room with no memory of how important they had once been to each other. The vision replayed rapidly in his mind and he recognised his inevitable fate. He gasped for breath, the pain upon him once again. His hands clenched into fists on the carpet, and he inhaled and screamed again.

*~*~*~*

Erestor awoke mere moments before the unearthly sound ripped through the manor, and was on his feet and out of his door before it had finished. He did not even stop to put his slippers and dressing gown on over his pyjamas, nor did he waste time wondering who or what could possibly have made that sound. He did not need to. He had heard it once before, on a dusty, sulphurous plain in Mordor, and it had echoed in his dreams every night after for an entire decade. 

Erestor gained the second-floor landing just as the second scream rang out, and he bolted up the next set of stairs with renewed speed. The set after those led up to the residential wing, and Erestor found that more than a few elves had wandered out of their chambers to see what the commotion was. He began to reassure them - "It's nothing, it'll be alright, just go back to sleep" - when the sound came again, longer this time and far more raw. When it finally subsided, the silence in the hallway was deafening. Erestor dispensed with pleasantries.

"Go back inside," he ordered.

"My Lord Erestor, is that-?"

Erestor turned on the elf who had spoken. "Go back inside."

The elf nodded and did as he was told. Erestor strode down the hallway with renewed purpose. One look at the expression on his face all that was needed for the rest of the curious elves to wisely retreat back into their own rooms.

Only one flight of stairs now separated Erestor from the part of the house where Elrond lived, and Erestor's heart was pounding in his throat as he climbed them. He was met at the top by Eäthiriel, who wordlessly handed him a lit candle. Erestor took it and nodded his thanks, and continued on. He noticed as he passed that Elladan's door was open, and found Elrond's eldest standing outside of his father's chambers, one hand over his mouth in wordless horror, scared and worried sick by the sounds that had woken him.

Erestor swallowed as he drew nearer to the young elf, who turned at his approach. Elladan took his hand away and tried to speak, but managed only to whisper Erestor's name, the tone pleading and desperate. Erestor put a hand on the younger elf's shoulder.

"I will handle it. Go back to bed, Elladan."

"Is he...?"

"I don't know." Erestor licked his lips and exhaled shakily. "I don't know, Elladan. I will find out. Please, just go back to bed."

Elladan nodded, and with one last glance at the door to his father's chambers, turned and went back to his own rooms.

Erestor took a deep breath, and turned to face the door himself. It could not have been more than five minutes since the end of the last scream and the present moment, but Erestor felt like the last stretch of his journey had taken weeks. He steeled himself and pushed the door open, swiftly making for the bedchamber. He found Elrond tossing violently, lost in the throes of some terrible dream. Erestor sighed in relief at finding his best friend alive, and rushed to the side of the bed. He placed the candle safely on the bedside table and, after waiting for the opportune moment, seized his chance and grabbed Elrond's arms, holding them in place as he urged the half-elf to awaken.

"Elrond, wake up!" There was no response, save that the half-elf thrashed harder against the hands that held him captive.

"No...no..."

Erestor moved his hands up to Elrond's shoulders and shook him. "Elrond!"

The half-elf's eyes shot open, and his gaze flew around as his mind struggled to orient itself.

 _Celebrían's rooms...no,_ his _rooms, now...the bed against the correct wall, window to the left, partially open, the rush of the waterfall audible and the highest of the spray just visible, glowing in the starlight..._

Elrond weakly pulled himself free of Erestor's grip and passed a hand over his face. His rooms looked right, but he still wasn't quite sure where he was or what was happening. He looked at his advisor and noticed for the first time the worried expression Erestor was wearing.

"Erestor? What's going on? Are you alright?" he asked urgently, afraid that something bad had happened. Talking aggravated his inexplicably dry throat and he suppressed a cough.

"Am I alright?" Erestor repeated incredulously. "Elrond, you were screaming!"

"Screaming?" 

Erestor nodded and Elrond frowned, trying to remember. All of a sudden the swirling remnants of his dreams slammed into him - _Ereinion...the kiss...his marriage, his son, Elrond's children, leaving him, and Elrond himself left with nothing,_ as _nothing..._ \- and he frantically climbed out of bed, pushing past Erestor to get out of the door.

"Elrond? Where are you going?" Elrond didn't answer and Erestor chased him out of the apartment and across the hallway to the blue double doors on the opposite side.

"Elrond..."

The half-elf continued to ignore his best friend and shoved the doors open, marching inside. He had to speak to Ereinion, he had to apologise, explain, beg, _something_ , it couldn't end like this, he wouldn't let it!

He threw open the door to the bedchamber proper, and stopped short. He had expected Ereinion to be there, but the moonlit room was empty. Not just empty; the furniture was all covered with sheets to protect it from dust, as if it had been vacant for centuries.

"What?" Elrond breathed, still not quite awake and unable to reconcile what he was seeing with what he thought he should be seeing.

He heard Erestor come up behind him and whirled around.

"Where is he?!" he demanded. "Where did he go?"

"Who?" Erestor asked. "Elrond, what's going on?"

" _Ereinion!_ Where did Ereinion go? He was just...here..." At the sound of the King's name Erestor's expression changed, a series of emotions flickering across it too fast for Elrond to read.

"He's not here, Elrond." Erestor spoke slowly and quietly, his voice pitched low.

"But he was! He...he was. Where is he?"

"He's dead." Erestor swallowed. "He's still dead. We heard a rumour this morning that he'd come back, but you brushed it off. We all did, because it's not true. They never are."

"Dead?"

Erestor nodded. "If you saw him, it was a dream. Nothing more."

"A dream," Elrond murmured to himself, looking around the room once more. "A dream."

Erestor looked on, still concerned but no longer afraid. "Just a dream," he said.

Elrond nodded and breathed out, slowly. The adrenaline that had carried him through the last few minutes subsided, leaving him exhausted down to his very bones as he tried to sort through what was left of the emotions that had been swirling through him only moments before. Elrond wasn't sure he could name them all, but it was mostly an unholy mix of relief, confusion, residual anger and the ever-present, soul-deep sorrow that had been his constant companion for the last two and a half thousand years. Even though the dream-Ereinion hadn't remembered their relationship and had cast Elrond aside so easily, at least he had been alive.

But now, Elrond found himself once again in a world where Ereinion no longer existed, and it was all the more empty for that. The world was empty as Elrond himself was empty, and he was so unbelievably tired.

All of a sudden his knees gave out and he sank to the floor, and Elrond, who never cried, put his head in his hands and sobbed with the profound anguish of a spirit pushed beyond the limits of all endurance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics are from this chapter's namesake, a song from Andrew Lloyd Webber's _Jesus Christ Superstar_. I recommend the Mel C version from the UK Arena tour, which you can listen to [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I_IBreicaBw).
> 
> "O for the touch of a vanish'd hand/and the sound of a voice that is still" is from the poem [_Break, Break, Break_](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174585) by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Obviously Tennyson did not live in Middle Earth, but it always struck me as a poem that could have been written by someone who did live there.
> 
> Embrethil and Colyávëwen belong to Embrethil; Eäthiriel, Annaeth and Colm are mine, everyone else belongs to Tolkien.


End file.
